


mornings are for coffee and contemplation (five things jim hopper learned through joyce byers)

by subparauthorings



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: AU, F/M, Fluff, Jopper, basically thats it also i forgot how to tag, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 14:05:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13168494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subparauthorings/pseuds/subparauthorings
Summary: the inevitable coffee shop au.





	mornings are for coffee and contemplation (five things jim hopper learned through joyce byers)

i. they don’t serve chai 

 

The first time Jim Hopper walked into _Byers’_ , it was a Tuesday morning, he was in a hurry, and he was distracted, and he nearly didn’t notice the small woman behind the counter - he had been asked to do a coffee run (against his explicit will, but goddamn it, Flo was incorrigible) and he hd simply picked the first shop he had seen. _Byers’_ was on the corner of Main St and advertised by a little specials blackboard on the pavement - today’s was a toasted smoked salmon sandwich - and conveniently just down the road from the police station, so he shouldered the door open and headed to the counter, ignoring the overwhelming smell of coffee and baked goods that assaulted him. 

 

“Can I help you?” 

 

Hop didn’t recognise the voice that spoke, so just gave a polite smile and passed over the list. His mind was on other things, after all, and he wasn't really the the type to pay much attention to those around him - whether they be a stranger in the street passing by, a cashier at the drug store, or his barista at the coffee shop. 

 

“You know we don’t serve chai, right?” 

 

Hop looked up. Standing across the register from him was a small woman wearing an apron liberally decorated with flour stains, her brown hair pushed behind her ears and an expectant look on her face. 

 

“Sorry, what?” He asked, and she sighed and yelled at someone in the - presumably - kitchen. 

 

“Jonathan, turn down the music! Sorry, I said we don’t serve chai. Dirty chai’s on this… list. Can I get you anything else?”

 

Hopper scratched his head. “Ah… no. Sorry. I’m just doing what I’m told. Flo sent me.”

 

The small woman laughed. “You’re police? I didn’t catch your name - we get a lot in here, but I’m afraid I don’t know you.” 

 

Hopper chose to withhold the information he was in fact, chief of police, and the only reason he was getting coffee today was because Flo was punishing him for knocking off duty early to get beers with Powell and he had already had his fair share of reprimanding for the day as an unmarried, forty-five year old boss, and just said “I’m Hopper, but everyone calls me Hop.”

 

“Nice to meet you then, Hop. I’m Joyce.”

 

ii. a coffee regular is a thing

 

Hop read somewhere that it only took twenty-one days to start a habit. Well, it certainly didn’t take that long for him to realise that his morning detour to _Byers’_ had become habitual (he wouldn’t admit to himself that he had started waking ten minutes earlier so he could get coffee there and take it to the station rather than drink Powell’s brewed grit, and he certainly wouldn’t admit to himself that the reason he took that detour might not just be for the coffee). 

 

“Drip with cream?” 

 

Joyce was wearing a tank top that day, and Hop had to forcibly ignore the niggling thoughts in the back of his mind and force a polite smile. “You know it.”

 

She returned it, but her smile was genuine, and it lit up her whole face in a way that simply compelled him to smile back. He had been around a lot over the past few weeks - around more than he cared to admit - and he had grown quite fond of Joyce’s smile. Joyce’s little absent smile when she handed him his coffee, Joyce’s smile full of laughter when the boys in the kitchen - who Hop had learned were sons from a failed marriage (“It’s called _Byers’_ because it’s family restaurant!” Her youngest, Will, had explained to him one Thursday afternoon) - told her jokes and Joyce’s little smirk-smile when Hop ordered coffee ‘have-here’ and she sat down and listened to his stories about Flo and Powell and life at the station. She would often reciprocate with stories about Jonathan and Will and the many afternoons spent in the shop arguing over little things and flicking each other with tea towels and aprons strings, and Hop loved every one. 

 

Hopper went to retrieve some money from his pocket, but Joyce simply placed her hand on his and said “Hop, it’s on the house today. Think of it as a reciprocation of the sudden loyalty you’ve been showing us.”

 

Hop, caught momentarily off-guard by how warm and soft her hand was on his, replied - in the true nature of an intellectual - “What?” 

 

“It’s free. I’m giving you free coffee today, Hop. You’re a regular, and yeah, I’d probably do this for Nancy or El, but you’re my favourite. I’m even thinking of getting the takeaway cups reprinted with your catchphrase - mornings are coffee and meditation?

 

Hop took his coffee and grinned. “Joyce, we’ve been over this. Mornings are for coffee and contemplation.”

 

iii. she smoked, too

 

A riddle, perchance - it’s 4 AM. You can’t sleep. You live all the way across town from a certain coffee shop, but it’s the only place you want to be. What do you do?

 

Probably not get up, dressed in nothing but a pair of worn denim jeans and drive all the way across townjust to sit on the doorstep of a cafe that was closed, anyway. That was just plain idiotic. But that is exactly what Hopper did. 

 

And just as he was cursing himself out liberally - partly for leaving without a shirt on, which had resulted in extreme shivering and possible frostbite/hypothermia, but mostly for the fact that this was a stupid idea and _why couldn’t he get it out of his brain, he didn’t need to drink coffee or see Joyce, he needed to sleep,_ a voice chimed through his thoughts from above. 

 

“Hop?” Joyce asked. She was leaned half out the second floor window, a cigarette held between her fingers and a dressing gown falling off her shoulders. “What are you doing?”

 

He didn’t really know how to respond to that. What was he doing? Why was he sitting on the stoop of his favourite coffee shop at four in the morning? Why couldn’t he get Joyce Byers out of his head?

 

The woman in question, fifteen feet above him and leaning out a window, shook her head and laughed. “You’re and idiot. Wait there.”

 

Hopper waited there (well, he didn’t have much choice) until a light came on inside the cafe and Joyce padded across the shop and opened the door. She was almost comically short without her shoes, and in contrast only to him, who would have at least a foot of height on her, the difference was laughable. She ushered him inside and muttered something under her breath about the idiocy of it all - which he couldn’t help but agree with - and handed him a blanket, before pouring some grounds into the coffeemaker. 

 

“So, what brings you to my coffee shop at… 4:11 in the morning, Hop?” She asked, wrapping her arms around her torso in an effort to retain warmth. Her gaze was almost concerned, like she was worried for him, and Hopper felt a sudden need to assuage her feelings. 

 

“I couldn’t sleep. There’s no coffee at my place.” 

 

“And instead of going to, I don’t know, the twenty-four-hour grocer, which sells everything you could possibly need to make coffee, including the mugs, you come here, when I’m almost definitely asleep? Your logic _amazes._ ”

 

Hop felt his cheeks flush and was suddenly grateful for the light covering of beard that obscured the majority of his face. Joyce had a point. “Yours is better,” he found himself saying. 

 

Joyce laughed, a little, lilting, flattered laugh, and poured his coffee. “Flattery will get you anywhere. Smoke?”

 

She was holding a pack open to him in her free hand. “You do, right? Smoke, I mean. You do smoke?”

 

“Yeah, I… didn’t know you did.” He took one carefully from the pack and held his breath as she leaned in to light it, ignoring the quickening in his chest when she brushed him as she moved to sit down beside him in the window booth. 

 

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Hop.”

 

iv. hawkins lake never froze in winter

 

“This was a terrible idea. It’s like the North Pole out here.”

 

“That’s what I said, Hop, don’t push the blame for this onto me.” 

 

Joyce was sat in the back of Jonathan’s truck with a blanket over her legs, drinking coffee from a flask and watching six thirteen-year-olds splash around in the icy mid-January waters of Hawkins Lake. To her credit, it was in fact Hopper’s idea to supervise Will and his friends’ trip to the lake - when Joyce had blatantly denied the kid’s request he had turned to Hopper and pleaded with him to take them. When Hopper gave in, Joyce had just sighed and agreed to go along to make sure Hopper didn’t find himself responsible for the “serious injury, death, or more probable hypothermia of those kids”. 

 

“I should have listened to you.”

 

“That’s true, you should listen to me more, but really you shouldn’t have listened to Will. He can talk you into anything.” Joyce paused to take a sip of coffee. “He talked me into letting him go and see the night premiere screening of that new thriller - without supervision. And that’s me. You’d think being their actual mom would grant me some immunity.”

 

“Mmm,” Hopper made a noncommittal noise. “How do they do it? Not be convincing, but brave those temperatures. It’s gotta be almost freezing temp in there.”

 

Joyce shook her head. “How long have you lived here? Hawkins Lake never freezes in winter. It’s like the pits of Hell keep it warm or something.”

 

“Or maybe it’s just a shallow lake that gets a lot of sun.” Joyce shot Hop a look. He laughed - he had known Joyce for several months, and in that time he had familiarised himself with all the little nuanced looks she had, because while sometimes her emotions were written all over her face, sometimes she was more difficult to read. But this time, she wasn’t - this was her “Are you shitting me?” look, and she wore it surprisingly well. 

 

“You want to test that theory?” He asked, a glint of mischief in his eye. 

 

“No. Not at all. No way.”

 

“Come on, Joyce. You were the one who just said the pits of Hell keep it warm. And if they - ” he gestured to the kids, who appeared to be having the time of their lives in the freezing lake - “Can do it, then so can we.” 

 

Joyce frowned at him, apparently considering his words. “Maybe just a toe.”

 

“That’s the spirit!” He grinned, offering Joyce his hand (which she sighed and begrudgingly took, and wow, her hands were so _small_ and _warm_ ) as they marched toward the gloomy lake, hand in hand and Joyce’s blanket forgotten on the frosty grass.

 

And yes, Joyce did screech a little when her feet first came in contact with the water, but it was nothing like Hopper’s scream (yes, scream) when Joyce pushed him into the ice water.

 

v. she loved him back

 

Hopper had been a regular customer at _Byers’_ for almost a year, and he had come to a startling conclusion. 

 

He - maybe, just possibly, because of course he wasn’t entirely sure - loved Joyce Byers. 

 

He didn’t know for sure. It was just a possibility. 

 

But it kind of made sense. Maybe that was why _Byers’_ was the only place he wanted to be at four in the morning, and why Joyce was the only one he wanted to exchange stories with in the afternoon, and maybe that was why Joyce’s smile seemed to light up whatever room she was in, and when he was in that room it had become all too important to him that Joyce smile again. Maybe that was the reason that Joyce was often the first person that came to mind when people asked if he was seeing anyone, and maybe that was the reason he felt his heart speed up when she touched his. _I mean,_ he thought, _when you look at it like that, it makes sense._

 

“Something bothering you?” Flo’s voice startled Hopper from his thoughts. It wasn’t as if there was much to do - Hawkins was almost famous for being an utter crime-free zone - but there was, according to Flo, always some better use of his time than whatever he was doing. 

 

Not really in the mood for reprimanding, Hop simply replied “It’s nothing, Flo,” which, of course, was the worst thing he could possibly say, as it grabbed her attention quicker than if he had said “I’m having a torrid affair with six foreign prostitutes and my psychiatrist.” Flo latched onto lies like a leech. 

 

“No, I think it’s something,” Flo sat down beside his desk. “Is it about Joyce?”

 

Hopper looked at her, alarmed, before lowering his voice so Powell (who wasn’t paying much attention anyway and was somewhat fascinated with picking the sprinkles off his donut by colour) couldn’t hear him. “How did you know?”

 

“Everyone from here to Indianapolis knows, Hop,” Flo rolled her eyes. “You’re not exactly the subtlest, dear. But then again, neither is she.”

 

“What do you mean, neither is she?” Hopper asked sceptically.

 

“Oh, honey,” Flo stood up. “If you can’t see that that woman is crazy in love with you then you are dumber than I thought.” In a rather infantilising manner, she patted the top of his head affectionately. “Don’t screw this up, darling. This might be special. Do something about it.”

 

Jim Hopper wasn’t exactly known for taking advice, especially when it came to relationships, but just this once, he thought, he’d try it. It might actually be worth it.

 

And it was. Jim Hopper didn’t know it then, but it was. Because he did learn that Joyce Byers loved him back. And maybe he was dumber than Flo thought, because he didn’t already know, but she would let him have that moment, that moment of Joyce Byers smiling wide and telling him in real, explicit words that she loved him back, forever.

**Author's Note:**

> published this as a seperate entity from my 'one-shots' collection. enjoy lovelies. xx


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